French Vanilla and Swiss Chocolate
by MezzeVerita
Summary: Two words, Liechtenstein. Stranger Danger. They're never as innocent as you think.


**A/N:** Hetalia and all the characters belong to Hidekaz Himaruya.

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><p><em>Trespassers should be shot, no matter what phase of trespassing they're in, <em>Switzerland thought. _Whether they are on the edge of one's property, hiding behind a bush next to the front door, or inside negotiating, it doesn't make a difference._ With Switzerland no one ever got to that last phase anymore; he was much too vigilant. Letting anyone slip by was dangerous, a painful lesson his family had learned from experience.

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><p>The gun was just out of his reach, mounted on the wall above his head. His arm strained the fabric of his jacket and it wrinkled over his shoulder, which also felt the strain. From his position on the floor he had no idea why he had been tackled, and by none other than France.<p>

France assured him he had unloaded all his guns, but from his history Switzerland doubted whether he could even operate one properly. This was obviously a bluff, but the French nation didn't care to be shot again or to feel the burning pain that came along with it.

If only France would get off of him—he could smell his own world-famous chocolate on the other's breath. France's breathing wasn't even ragged, like it would be if he had gone streaking across his lawn again for the thrill of it and stopped in for a drink. In contrast it was slow and leisurely; France had planned to stay.

Switzerland threw a punch at France's left shoulder, and the pressure on his chest lightened.

He didn't hit very hard, but France was disarmed by the added pain caused by the bullet wound of a few hours ago and rolled off of the Swiss nation with a grunt. The metal was no longer in him, but the muscle in his arm was still sensitive and sore. Dried blood stained the sleeve of his shirt, and the stain was now getting bigger. The person under him was not who he thought it was at all. He was expecting someone smaller, prettier, and most likely with ribbons in her hair.

Something sweet dropped from his tongue when he reacted to the pain—a square of rich chocolate.

Switzerland figured Liechtenstein must have neglected to lock all the doors and windows before she went to bed that night, again. Occasionally she'd sleep with her window open to let in some fresh air, but she tried to hide it from him. He didn't approve of the idea and had told her countless times to do it, but his little sister argued that it was harmless because the old window only opened a few inches anyway.

Tonight the owner of the house was incredulous upon realizing that not only did another nation break in, but that he stole as well. After kicking France off of him he ripped the rest of the chocolate bar from his hand and kicked him off of him with the power sprung from his folded legs.

The bang France made when hitting the wall shook the floor as well. In the back of his mind, Switzerland wondered if the noise would carry far enough to wake up his little sister. He thought of her as tender and fragile, and he felt a surge of rage at the thought that France might have been in her room while she was asleep.

Fighting the numbness in his legs, Switzerland pushed himself up and grabbed the emergency handgun he always kept in his military uniform. He didn't always wear his uniform to bed, but it the scratchy fabric made him feel less vulnerable unlike, say, Liechtenstinian lace did.

France leaned against the wall, seemingly worn out. He instinctively raised his hands over his head and looked away from the barrel of the gun that was leveled at his head. The Swiss nation had no doubt that there was no shortage of ammunition in this one. A hiccup came from behind him, momentarily relieving the tension between the two male nations. The sight of the young girl with a rifle shocked both of them, and it unsettled Switzerland because he'd never seen his sister defend herself before. Why would she need to? She had him.

France raised his hands up higher and at the same time tried to shield his wounded arm.

Switzerland's aim never wavered, and Liechtenstein knew he was too good of a shot to miss. She threw the gun down and it skittered across the wooden floor.

Switzerland's adopted twin hoped she'd never have to touch one again. She ran up to her brother and dreaded what she would have to say next to save France's life.

"Brother, don't shoot—I already did that." Finally the trigger-happy nation realized where France's wound had come from.

"I never taught you to—"

"I didn't think I'd have to," Liechtenstein admitted, and shot a meaningful glance at the bleeding nation on the wall. "But you took it too far, Francis..." she whispered to the floor.

The girl nation had come to trust someone she knew she shouldn't have; the only one she could really trust was her brother. He _had_ taught her; she watched him every day at the shooting range and had taken a gun for herself for extra protection. Switzerland would be devastated if anything happened to her. She should have taken the hint the few times she had seen him shooting at the person she had invited in earlier that night. Invited him in, gave him chocolate, thought it would be like any other night between them. Who could have known he wanted—that.

Liechtenstein was strong enough to deal with her choice. Strong enough to pull the gun from under her pillow and tremble as she pulled the trigger. She didn't shoot like her brother, didn't narrow her eyes or grit her teeth in concentration. She shook and nearly cried and was nearly knocked back on her bed by the recoil, knowing if she didn't shoot and hurt Francis he would have hurt her.

Switzerland lowered his gun and approached his sister, glad that she, of all people, had not shot to kill. He would have, he knew that, and he wouldn't have had second thoughts. He just didn't want _her_ to be exposed to more violence, his baby sister.

His gaze softened, and he took hold of her arm to guide her back to bed. But he couldn't help catching the scent that clung to her pajamas—French vanilla.

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><p><strong>AN:** For some reason I feel I need to give credit to my math teacher for the inspiration for this fic. The idea came from a worksheet with an exercise dealing with systems of equations. I'm going to be like the female narrator in Hetalia and just give the answer to the problem instead of the actual problem, because it's too long.

X=2 pounds of French vanilla

Y=4 pounds of Caramel coffee

Z=4 pounds of Swiss chocolate


End file.
